


salt lick

by Siria



Series: After the Other [10]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-06
Updated: 2009-10-06
Packaged: 2017-10-03 18:52:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They miss the last bus, but Rodney refuses to wait around for the Nitelink and the pleasant fizz of alcohol in John's veins means he isn't in the mood for being cooped up in a taxi.</p>
            </blockquote>





	salt lick

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [mcsmooch](http://mcsmooch.livejournal.com) challenge, for the lovely [Jenn](http://dogeared.livejournal.com).

They miss the last bus, but Rodney refuses to wait around for the Nitelink and the pleasant fizz of alcohol in John's veins means he isn't in the mood for being cooped up in a taxi. They walk home instead, side by side up O'Connell Street and along Dorset Street. Doesn't take more than half an hour, and the time passes quickly when they've got the last season of _Torchwood_ to debate, but by the time they get back to Drumcondra, Rodney's complaining that such vigorous, extended exercise has entirely depleted his stores of energy.

"Give me carbs or give me death," Rodney declaims as they cross over the Tolka.

"Jesus," John says, "if you're this bad now, should I be keeping a stock of power bars on the bedside table tonight?"

Rodney turns pink and makes a funny noise, as if he's swallowed his tongue, and John takes advantage of his distraction to hustle him along past Tescos and the Cat and Cage. Thank god the chippers is still open, with one or two people waiting inside for their food—one guy has a hoodie zipped up over his pyjamas, clearly the victim of a late night craving; the other is drunk enough that he's leaning face first against the countertop as he waits for his kebab. Typical Saturday night, and John places his usual Saturday night order—double order of chips and some onion rings for him, snack box for Rodney, lashings of salt and two cans of coke.

Rodney lists against him while John's paying. John glances down to see that Rodney's eyes are drifting closed and he's mumbling under his breath—John can't make out much more than an impassioned plea to the universe for it to prevent Ronon making Rodney try the blue drink _ever again_.

"I think it is inducing hallucinations," Rodney tells him when they stumble back outside. He squints up at John blearily. "Your hair…"

"Okay," John says, "Enough of that," and makes a command decision. He digs Rodney's snack box out of the brown paper bag and hands it over. "Eat and whisht."

"Can't talk wiff food in mah mouf," Rodney says around a mouthful of chips, and looks confused when John rolls his eyes.

They turn down their street, ambling back towards their house and eating in companionable silence. The chips are hot and crisp and perfectly greasy, making John's tongue tingle from the salt.

"'S'good," Rodney sighs happily.

"Mmhmm," John agrees, sucking at the tips of his fingers to get rid of the traces of salt and grease that linger there.

"Right," Rodney says, "you're going to have to stop doing that."

"Huh?"

"The… licking," Rodney says, waving his piece of fried chicken in one hand. "It's distracting."

John raises an eyebrow. "So's using a chicken to gesture."

"So's your _face_," Rodney shoots back automatically before he sighs. "No, I meant distracting in the, you know…" He looks nervously around at the other houses, as if there's going to be a crowd of people standing in their bay windows looking out at them at this hour of the morning. "In the happy way."

_Oh_. Now John gets it. "The happy pants kind of way."

"Exactly!" Rodney says and beams at him—it's his default reaction to people agreeing with him, maybe even his default reaction to John, and John can't help himself. He steps closer and cups Rodney's face with one hand, kissing him very softly, with all the intent that lips and tongue and a low groan in the back of his throat can convey. Rodney's lips are a little swollen from the salt, a little chapped from the late autumn weather, and John only realises he's maybe too far gone when his bag of onion rings crumples between them.

"Uh," he says when he pulls back. "Maybe not in the road."

"Bed!" Rodney chirps happily, grabbing a fistful of John's fleece and hauling him along behind him up their driveway. "Bed, orgasm, onion rings, preferably in that order."

"Orgasms," John points out, "_plural_", because that seems like an important thing to get straight. "And they're _my_ onion rings, McKay."

"Nag, nag, nag," Rodney says, and kicks their front door closed behind them.


End file.
